Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

“ S o, we will be sharing… that?” Rosalie stared down at the small, narrow bed in front of them. It was hardly even a double, let alone the queen-size bed that she was used to sleeping in back at the Duke’s townhouse—and her cousin’s.

“It is a bit small,” Clara said, gazing down at it as well. They had just been shown to the room by the housekeeper, who had also informed Rosalie that this was the only room that was currently habitable for her and the Duke. Rosalie had been so shocked that she hadn’t known what to say.

I can’t complain , she’d thought, or ask for another bed because then they will suspect that the Duke and I have not yet consummated our marriage.

And Rosalie was not sure she could stand the embarrassment of the servants knowing about that.

“I know it is not up to par with what you are used to...” Clara started.

“It’s not that! For one person, it would be comfortable enough,” Rosalie said. “But for two people, it will be a tad… snug.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Rosalie was sure she saw Clara smirk, but by the time she looked at her maid, the girl was wearing a neutral expression.

“I’m sure it will not be so bad,” Clara said with a shrug. “And perhaps it will even be beneficial.”

“Beneficial?”

“Well, it is your honeymoon, after all.” Now there was no mistaking it: Clara really was smirking.

Rosalie blushed, but she tried to maintain a calm, secret smile—one that would give off the feeling that she was a worldly married woman, not still a naive maiden.

“We will have to make do,” she said, deciding it was best to ignore Clara’s insinuations. “And this will motivate me not to dawdle in fixing up the rest of the house! I’ll have to speak to the Duke at dinner and ask him to speed up the process, especially if we are going to be entertaining or spending a significant amount of time here in the future.”

But no sooner had Rosalie changed into her gown for dinner when there was a knock on the door and a housemaid came in, bearing a tray lined with food, including a bowl that smelled like rich and nutty.

Rosalie’s eyes fluttered closed as she breathed in the delicious smell, and when she opened them again, the maid had set the tray on the vanity.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the girl muttered, “but His Grace had to excuse himself from dinner. There is much work to be done, and he apologizes deeply for not being able to join you tonight. However, he thought that you might be tired after the long journey and prefer a tray sent up to you here instead of making all the effort to dine alone in the dining room. He also took the liberty of asking Cook to prepare your favorite soup.”

“So, it is almond soup!” Rosalie asked delightedly, removing the lid from the bowl and breathing in deeply. The smell was rich and strong, and immediately her mouth watered. “That is so thoughtful of him,” she murmured. “Thank you; I will eat here as he suggests.”

But how did he know almond soup is my favorite? she wondered as Clara helped her back out of her gown. I don’t remember ever discussing that with him. Maybe my cousin sent over a list of my favorite foods?

But that didn’t seem like the kind of thing cousin Niles would do. He was a forgetful, irresponsible man, not the kind who remembered to pass along a list of his cousin’s favorite foods to her new husband.

Rosalie settled on the bed. There was also warm, freshly baked bread on the tray as well as butter, honey, and a variety of cheeses. After lathering the bread in butter, she dipped it in the soup and began to eat heartily. The soup smelled and tasted so good that she didn’t even think about what she was doing.

All instincts to deprive herself, to restrict, to show her discipline and perfection through food, disappeared. She simply ate, letting the animal instinct for nourishment take over. It was only after she had finished every last morsel of food that she realized she had just eaten an entire meal.

It had been a long time since she had eaten a full meal. She couldn’t remember the last time her belly had felt this full, and a feeling of pure contentment washed over her.

Is this always how it feels to be well fed? Her thoughts drifted again to the Duke, and she chuckled to herself. He really is determined to get me to eat more . For the first time, this didn’t annoy her. It actually seemed rather thoughtful and kind.

It was late now, and Rosalie was a bit cold and, she realized, lonely. Clara had gone, probably down to the kitchens for her own dinner, and Rosalie felt restless. She could have tried to light the fire and read by it, but for once, she didn’t want to sit and read. She wanted to talk to someone.

I wonder where Nathan is.

What was he up to? It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go but here to their room. The rest of the house was damaged, and he would be sleeping here with her in this small, shabby room.

Rosalie decided to go and find him. It was their honeymoon after all, even if it was the least romantic honeymoon she ever could have imagined, and she felt entitled to his attention.

Standing, she put on her dressing gown, slipped on a thick pair of woolen socks, and then snuck out of the room. There hadn’t been a candle in her room, so she walked in the dark through the castle’s corridors, careful to stick to the parts that looked as if they weren’t damaged. She still remembered the way back to the entrance hall, so this was the way she went until at last, she found it.

As she entered the hall, she saw a maid crossing the hallway, and she called to her, “Pardon me, but do you know where I can find His Grace?”

The maid jumped then curtsied quickly. “The last I saw him, he was in his study,” the maid mumbled, too shy to even look Rosalie in the eye. “It’s just down the hallway on the left.”

“Thank you,” Rosalie said warmly. I will have to get to know all of the staff and make them trust me. She laughed slightly. The Duke is right: I am starting to think like a duchess.

She walked down the hall until she reached a door on the left-hand side. Raising her hand, she knocked.

There was no answer.

She tried again, but once more, there was no response. Shrugging, she pushed open the door and peered inside. It was dark, but as her eyes adjusted, she could make out that this was, indeed, a study.

However, there was no one there, and if not for a few signs that someone had been in there recently, she would think that no one had inhabited this room in a long time.

For one thing, it was rather stuffy. The air was thick and full of dust, as if it had not been aired out in a long time. The windows were darkened on the outside from mold, and on the inside they were lined with dust. In fact, everything in the study was covered in dust.

The only evidence that someone had been in here was a cigar that sat in a small porcelain tray on the desk, still glowing slightly at the end and emitting the acrid smell of smoke. There was also a half-empty bottle of wine that was the only thing not covered in dust, and an empty glass with residue of wine at the bottom.

Rosalie moved further into the room. Although it was claustrophobic and a little creepy, she was also fascinated. This room belonged to the Duke, and there might be some hint as to his innermost thoughts hidden somewhere in here. She didn’t want to pry, but if something just turned up…

Well, Rosalie had read enough novels to know that she’d be in trouble for looking, but she didn’t care.

He trapped me in this marriage, so he might as well let me inside his head a little bit.

Something near the edge of the room caught her eye; it was a painting that looked as if it had been torn out of its frame and slashed with a knife. Even rolled up, she could make out the great gashes in the canvas. Frowning, she took a step closer then reached down and began to piece it together.

It was a painting of a man. And as she unfolded it all the way and then smoothed it out, she couldn’t help but gasp.

The painting was a portrait of the Duke.

Her hands shook as she held the painting out in front of her, her eyes raking over the deep cuts that had been slashed, as if with a knife or sword, throughout the painting. They were everywhere, like gaping wounds, across the man’s torso, his arms, and most grisly of all, across his face.

Why would he slash a portrait of himself? Could he really dislike himself so much?

It wasn’t a perfect likeness—the shape of the chin was off and perhaps the color of the eyes which were slightly lighter in the man in the portrait. And her noticing that unsettled her more than the self-hatred before her eyes.

She set the portrait aside and turned to the desk. Sitting on top of it, next to the smoldering cigar, was a letter.

I shouldn’t read that , she told herself, even as she took a step towards it, but her heart was hammering, and much to her chagrin, she couldn’t help but notice how much she felt like a character in a novel, sneaking through the castle of a villainous duke, looking for clues about her imprisonment. The thought thrilled her, and she leaned closer.

But just as her eyes came to rest on the letter, her sense returned to her.

I shouldn’t read his private correspondence! That’s not the kind of wife, or person, I want to be.

Because the Duke was right: life wasn’t a novel, and she shouldn’t act as if it was.

But just as she was leaning away again, her eyes caught one of the words in the letter, and she froze: Redfield.

Lord Redfield. Like the name of the man Violet was almost forced to marry?

Fear seized her at once, and she grabbed the letter from the desk, all caution evaporating. She had to know if Lord Redfield was once again threatening her family as he had before. She had to know that her sister was safe.

But just then came the sound behind her of a foot on a creaking floorboard, and Rosalie screamed and jumped. At the same time, a hand reached out and snatched the letter from her. Rosalie looked up to see the fierce, fuming eyes of her husband staring down at her.

“What are you doing here?” he snarled. The look on his face was terrifying. His lip was curling, and she could see the whites of his eyes. She shrank back.

“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was just curious about what was in here.”

“You have no right to come into my private study,” he seethed. “You have no right to snoop through my things.”

Rosalie knew, from past experience with her father, that the best thing to do right now would be to apologize, become demure and obsequious, and let him lecture her until he was satisfied. Fighting back would only add fuel to the flames. It was never the right decision.

But this time, she couldn’t do it. She had spent a lifetime watching her sisters be bullied by her father. She had endured his bullying as well. And every time, she had given in—let him yell, apologized, and demurred.

Not anymore.

“I have every right to snoop!” she shouted, surprising both herself and from the look on his face, him as well. “You told me I’m not allowed to ask questions, so how else am I supposed to find out the truth of what’s going on here?”

“Nothing is going on here,” he said, recovering himself quickly.

“Oh, is that right?” She put her hands on her hips. “Then what does that letter say? Why are we really here?”

“We’re here for our honeymoon,” the Duke snapped although a vein in his jaw had begun to bulge which made her think he was holding something back—the truth, no doubt.

“I have a right to know!” She stomped her foot on the ground. “The late Lord Redfield nearly kidnapped my sister! If my family is in danger?—”

“Then I will protect them and you,” he interrupted her. “And I don’t appreciate you questioning my ability to do so.”

“I’m not questioning that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But I’m not a helpless little girl anymore; I have a right to know.”

“Oh, aren’t you?” The Duke snorted. “Because if I remember correctly, you’re the kind of helpless little girl whose head is so lost in the clouds she lets herself be manipulated by gentlemen pretending to court her.”

Rosalie gasped. She couldn’t believe that he would bring up Lord Cain to her or use it against her like this. Tears pricked her eyes, and she felt the venom on her tongue, turning her words poisonous.

“Tell me what is really going on here,” she said in a voice so low and dangerous that she wasn’t surprised when he blinked in fear and awe. “Tell me what really happened to the castle. Tell me why you hate being here so much. And tell me—right now—what is really going on with Lord Redfield and why we are here.

“And don’t you dare say that it’s for our honeymoon! Because this is no honeymoon. And believe me, I would know! I’ve dreamt of my honeymoon all my life. Just like how I dreamed of marrying a kind, caring man who would love me for who I am. But no, instead, I’ve ended up marrying exactly the kind of cruel, vindictive man I always promised I wouldn’t marry—a man like my father. But even he wouldn’t be monstrous enough to take his wife to a dilapidated, rundown castle with only one tiny bed and call it a honeymoon.”

But she had said the wrong thing. At the word monstrous , he flinched, and something closed in his face. He didn’t seem angry so much as not there. She froze, waiting to see what he would do next. Then he drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her with something akin to indifference.

“Get out,” he murmured, and despite the quietness of his voice, there was a cold authority to it that she had to obey. When she didn’t move, his face twisted, and suddenly he was shouting. “GET OUT!”

She turned and fled from the room.